


35. I just wanted to let you know that I think you’re beautiful.

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Intimacy, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: BGM: The Mystery Sonatas by Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 20
Kudos: 96





	35. I just wanted to let you know that I think you’re beautiful.

“John?”

“Mm?”

“What would you say are your favorite activities to engage in, as they relate to the intimacy aspect of a romantic relationship?“

John frowned at the book he was no longer reading as he parsed the question a few times over. And then he looked up and frowned at Sherlock, who was curled up in his chair and nonchalantly thumbing through his phone as he waited for John to concoct an answer.

“Er...top three, or all I can think of?” John asked, curiosity engaged as to what sort of case the consulting detective was considering taking on.

“All that come to mind easily,” Sherlock replied, languidly waving a hand as if to say that it mattered not in the end.

"I know you hate obvious answers, but sex tops the list, I have to say," John began, ticking items off on his fingers. "You said intimacy, so...I guess either a nice, leisurely shag or a lazy morning after. Actually, there's a lot to be said for just spending the night together, especially on a cold, rainy night. A good snog on a comfortable couch."

He paused and tried to think of what put that lovely glow in his chest, not just a stirring low in his belly and a sweet ache even further south.

"Little things," he continued, gaze drifting this way and that as he reviewed memories. "A cuddle while watching telly or enjoying a fire on a cold night. The moments where you give into the impulse to reach over and hold hands for a second, or push away a bit of hair from their face. Looking forward to a kiss hello or goodbye and being sure of getting it. Or hell, a quick kiss for no reason at all. Just the comfort of knowing you can, y’know?"

He cut off his retroactively embarrassing rambling and glanced up, only to find that his frown had transferred itself to Sherlock’s brow. But instead of scathing sarcasm at all this romantic dribble, John merely got a shrug.

“I _wouldn’t_ know, in point of fact,” Sherlock said. “I’ve only shammed romance for cases.”

Oh.

John ruminated on this and various tangential thoughts, and then blurted,

“You really are married to your work, then. And in a weird way, completely faithful to it.”

“I wouldn’t have done it for anything less important than the Work, true. It was distasteful in the extreme, each and every time,” Sherlock noted, wrinkling his nose as if at some loathsome odor. “But then again, I was pairing myself up with persons for whom I had absolutely no regard or respect.”

“That’d kill it for me, for sure,” John agreed, and then found himself being interrogated as to his top three requirements to be able to enjoy his favorite intimacies.

“Trust,” he answered after a moment of thought.

“Not attraction?”

“No...in fact I don’t think that’s even in my top three, come to think of it. Trust, admiration, and affection. Attraction would be important if I was just looking to get off. But for intimacy? No, I need to feel comfortable with a person.”

Sherlock hummed contemplatively and John thumbed through his book, trying to pick up the dropped thread of the plot until interrupted by another question.

“John? You trust me, yes?”

John squinted at his flatmate.

“This feels like one of those moments where in hindsight, I’d look back and say, ‘now _there_...there’s where I should have tapped out’.”

“I'll just take that as a ‘no’, shall I?” the detective sniffed, turning back to his phone with an offended air, though apparently unwilling to put in the effort of actually flouncing away in a snit.

John felt a stab of guilt.

After mentally making a note to brush up on codependency, he set his book aside and tried cajoling Sherlock back into the conversation.

"I trust you with my life, Sherlock,” he said, aiming for a mix of warmth and solemnity. “And obviously I admire and like you. And I’m comfortable enough with you to call you out when you’re being a manipulative prat. So out with it, what are you after?”

Those piercing eyes cut back to him, flitting over his face and form, probably gathering data in order to fill out a checklist titled “25 Signs that Your Flatmate is Sincere, Not Just Humoring You”. Results apparently to his liking, Sherlock nodded and drew breath to speak.

“I wish to experience intimacy with someone that I trust and whose company I do not entirely dislike, and compare my reactions and impressions with memories of similar behaviors engaged in solely for the purpose of gathering data or DNA evidence. With such proofs as I have witnessed over the years that such pursuits are so rewarding as to inspire people to murder, well...I posited that perhaps there was some catalyst or critical ingredient left out of my experiences. Unfortunately my list of prospects is rather short; I’ve narrowed it down to only you and Grant.”

It took a bit longer to parse this than it had to understand Sherlock’s earlier questions.

“...you want to know if you’ve been missing out.”

“Must you be so rom-com?”

“We’re discussing romance, and quite frankly this conversation’s a bit funny, so...yeah, I think I must.”

“Oh, fine.” Sherlock adopted a facetiously earnest expression, doe eyes and all, with his hands clasped under his chin and bony elbows propped onto his knees. “I want a proper kiss, so I can feel like a real boy.”

“Git,” John muttered, and then wiped a hand down his face. “Right, well, if you’re open to suggestions, I’d say you won’t get the results you want from _Greg_ , since you can’t even be arsed to remember his name.”

It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, and had nothing to do with the smoldering coal of jealousy that took up residence in his gullet when he imagined Sherlock slouched in Lestrade’s chair or even worse his lap, or sprawled out over his desk like a decadent--

“You realize you’ve just volunteered yourself,” Sherlock pointed out, interrupting the glorious train wreck coalescing in John’s imagination.

Oh.

Well...bollocks.

His face did something, apparently, because Sherlock eyed him sharply, then jumped up and stalked off to the kitchen table.

“No need to panic,” Sherlock snapped over one rigid shoulder. “I’ve no intention of conscripting unwilling participants for this particular experiment.”

It’s the easiest out he’d ever been offered, but John stayed silent. Sherlock wanting “a proper kiss” had particularly struck him, for one. It was sweet and endearing and a tiny bit sad, which made John hesitate to jump out the conversational window he’d been shoved toward. He also remained mum on this point because there was no universe in which Sherlock would react favorably to being told that John felt badly for him in any way, shape, or form.

John might be shoved out an actual window.

And on a less altruistic note, there was a goodly bit of his brain that was jumping up and down and hollering gleefully at an opportunity to share in _real kisses_ and _snuggling_ and other _intimacies_ with his mad, frustrating git of an adorable, gorgeous genius. An iron-clad excuse to touch the untouchable had been tied off with a bow and plopped into his lap - speaking of less altruistic parts - and he was just sitting there in his chair like a lump--

He popped up and chased Sherlock into the kitchen.

Before the man could throw anything more than a glare at him, John sidled up, slipped a hand around his flatmate’s waist, and dropped an apologetic smooch onto one shoulder.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured into silky-soft fabric. “You just caught me off guard, is all. I’m not unwilling.”

John counted to three and then disengaged, stepping back twice before looking up to assess the damage.

“How was that?” he asked, settling smoothly into his I-am-about-to-be-given-a-right-good-bollocking-by-a-superior-officer face. His body had automatically shifted into parade rest as well, and he had to struggle not to fidget awkwardly out of it as Sherlock stared at him.

And stared at him.

And stared at him some more.

And then blinked, frowned, and pouted.

“Do it again. I wasn’t paying attention.”

John chuckled and stepped in again, repeating the side hug and shoulder peck as requested, and this time stayed put to await results.

Sherlock stood stock still for a bit, shifted slightly, cleared his throat. And then he wriggled one arm behind John’s back to grab a handful of jumper and turned slightly to drop a kiss to John’s hair.

“Apology accepted.” It was stiff and stilted, just like his posture, but John’s smile spread into an outright grin.

Everything grew easier after that first experiment.

By mutual and silent agreement, the intimacy experiment was kept private. John didn’t presume outside the flat or when they had visitors, and he didn’t notice Sherlock angling for anything during those times either. But when it was just the two of them at Baker Street, Sherlock circled him like a touch-starved cat trying to pretend aloofness, and John indulged in going into all-out Infatuated New Boyfriend mode.

It really didn’t take much effort.

He’d rather expected a detailed spreadsheet of Sherlock’s past experiences so that he could recreate them to the best of his abilities and give his flatmate new data to compare against, but other than some occasional hints -

“If you’re going to waste your attention on this mindless show, you may as well engage your hands in something useful and pet my hair.”

“What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m sleeping in your bed, obviously. How else am I supposed to be little spooned?”

“Feed me honey toast.” (Though that might have just been Sherlock being Sherlock, and not part of the experiment.)

\- he was left to offer intimacies on his own terms and timing. Mostly it was letting himself give in to all the little impulses he’d been strangling down prior to being given carte blanche on expressions of affection; touching Sherlock every time they neared each other, dropping little kisses good morning and good night and to mark all the moments of eye contact in between, and cuddling Sherlock into a halfway decent sleep schedule once the detective began invading his bed.

His foray into pet names was received positively. A simple man, John stuck with “sweetheart” and “love” for the most part, reserving things like “pumpkin seed honey muffin” and “mister sweetie cheeks” for when he wanted to tease Sherlock out of a strop. These verbal intimacies spread like weeds into other parts of his speech, and soon he wasn’t just complimenting the detective’s deductive brilliance at crime scenes, but also showering praise upon him at home on topics such as his grace and musical talent.

The only thing he kept back was “I love you”. It would be too pitiful to throw that one out, when they were only doing this for an experiment. (Right?) Sherlock _was_ loved, and by John, but he couldn’t bear to have the declaration desecrated in such a way.

Except that one day, many days later, Sherlock demanded it.

By then, John was ready.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, as Sherlock lowered his bow and breathed out a heavy, satisfied sigh.

“You do love your Biber sonatas.”

“No, I mean yes I do and your playing is brilliant, but I meant you. _You’re_ beautiful. Even if I was deaf I could watch you play for hours.”

Sherlock seemed to freeze for a moment as he cleaned and put away his violin, then finished the task and turned to look at John as he sat by the fire. Sherlock stood, half in flickering firelight and otherwise obscured by shadows, staring, looking, seeing.

John waited out the scrutiny. Three of the best and happiest months of his life now - despite occasional blunt force trauma and one particularly harrowing gunshot wound - and he was at ease by this time with all the bits of his heart that he freely let flow from eyes and lips and fingertips. Let Sherlock gather all the data he liked; John had nothing to hide. Even the little lingering shard of doubt of how willing Sherlock might be to acknowledge that they loved each other - the depth and mutuality of their affection weren’t in question; only whether they’d eventually make it official and let it permeate all facets of their life together - was easy to leave out on display.

John wanted that, was fine without it but would be happier having it, and didn’t mind Sherlock knowing.

Sherlock took a step forward.

“I can always tell when you’re lying.”

“I’m not,” John replied.

“I know. As I said; I can tell.” He bit his lip, let it go. “Tell me again.”

“You’re beautiful. I could watch you play forever.” And then, to forestall any doubt of his meaning, John added, “I love watching you play. I love watching you, period. You’re always beautiful to me, whether you’re scribbling notes or in your Mind Palace or picking the celery out of your cashew chicken.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wider, catching more glints and sparks, and the shadows folded into his shirt shifted uneasily with his quickening breaths. He took another step forward, looming now.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

John had no speeches planned, he’d not dreamed of this moment. But he couldn’t have fought his way through all the battlefields of his life without instinct, and it served him just as well in peacetime as it did in war. He knew what Sherlock was asking, and knew what Sherlock needed to hear.

“I love watching you; you’re always so _alive_. And it makes me feel alive too, just being by your side. But I also love watching you when you’re calm. When you’ve got your head laid down in my lap and your top and bottom lashes meet ‘cause you’ve got your eyes just barely open. When you’re sleeping next to me, not even dreaming yet and every bit of you is still. Peaceful. I love that you trust me so much. I love that I can make you feel safe.”

And then _down_ , Sherlock fell straight down between one breath and the next, down to his knees and with John’s palms catching at elbow and forearm, gentling him the remainder of the way, bringing him to rest between John’s legs, staring breathlessly up and repeating his request with beseeching gaze because his voice had failed at the same time as his legs.

It was heady, it was dizzying, it made John feel powerful, humble, eternal, and small all at the same time, to have Sherlock so focused on him. All of his being distilled down to this one want, waiting for this gift that John wanted to bestow.

“I love you.”


End file.
